


Lacuna

by Amelia_Clark



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, Episode: s09e06 Heaven Can't Wait, First Time, M/M, POV Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2019-02-04 18:23:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12776772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amelia_Clark/pseuds/Amelia_Clark
Summary: "Where to?" Dean asks.Castiel just looks at him for a moment—wearily, warily—and gets in the car without saying anything. Dean climbs in after him. There's a tiny vertical crease between his eyebrows, the faintest hint of a frown turning down the corners of his mouth; Castiel wants to smooth the wrinkles with his thumb.





	Lacuna

"Where to?" Dean asks.

Castiel just looks at him for a moment—wearily, warily—and gets in the car without saying anything. Dean climbs in after him. There's a tiny vertical crease between his eyebrows, the faintest hint of a frown turning down the corners of his mouth; Castiel wants to smooth the wrinkles with his thumb. 

He wants to touch Dean so badly now that he's human. The impulse was there at the bunker, when Dean welcomed him in then threw him out—why, why did he do this, of all the things that no longer make sense to Castiel this is the least explainable—but he was unprepared for Dean's appearance at the Gas-n-Sip, and at the sight of him want poured through Castiel like warm honey, burning like molten gold in his blood, in his gut, in his penis.

He wanted Dean as an angel, too, of course. But angels aren't meant to feel that kind of carnal hunger, and so it never quite reached the heart of him—there was enough space between desire and reason that he could...work around it, so to speak. Now? It's all he can think about. He barely remembers how to breathe in Dean's presence.

Dean is regarding him expectantly—he's spoken again, Castiel realizes, repeated his question. Castiel sighs. "I don't know," he says. "I sleep in the back room at work, you can take me there."

"You what?" Dean looks horrified. "You don't have a place or anything?"

"I don't know how to rent an apartment, Dean," Castiel says, unable to keep the irritation out of his voice. Human emotions, he's learning, can be difficult to conceal. "Do you?"

Dean shifts uncomfortably. "I guess not, not really. Never done it, at least. But look, Cas, you can't—you gotta have a bed or something, dude. You can't just sleep at the Gas-n-Sip.”

"I can and I do," snaps Castiel. "I don't understand why this bothers you so much, Dean. If you wanted me to have a bed, you could have given me one of the dozens of empty ones in the bunker, but you didn't—instead you told me to leave, and you wouldn't tell me why. I don't understand why you care now."

Dean's got both hands on the steering wheel, and at Castiel's words his grip tightens until the color drains from his fingers. "I care," he grunts. It doesn't sound like it's quite what he means to say. "I care," he says again more quietly, staring at the speedometer like it's broken his heart.

"Well then, I guess I've got a lot more to learn about how humans show they care," Castiel says. "Take me back to the Gas-n-Sip, Dean, I'm sure you're impatient to get back on the road."

"No," Dean says. 

"No?"

"No!" Dean sits up straighter, tries to put the key in the ignition, fumbles it. "No, I'm not—Cas, I'm sorry. Believe me, if there were anyway for you to stay with me—with us, me and Sammy—I'd take it."

"Oh, thank you so much, Dean," says Castiel, feeling his mouth curl unbidden into a sneer. "That'll be comforting to think about next time I'm cleaning shit off the bathroom wall at work. How much you want me with you, while you're hundreds of miles away." 917, to be exact. He'd punched it into his phone's GPS one night in a moment of weakness; alone in the dark, with the cold concrete soaking through his sleeping bag, he could feel every one of those miles tugging at him, his longing for Dean stretching out across them, his brand-new soul thin and tense as a rubber band.

Dean gets the car started and shifts angrily into gear. "We're going back to my motel room, okay? I got a double anyway, they didn't have any singles left. I can't take you back, but I can give you a bed for the night, okay?”

A double. Of course. "Fine," says Castiel. Because it does sound nice, sleeping in a room meant for that purpose, on a soft and yielding surface, and he's too exhausted to protest anymore. As Dean pulls away from the curb with a jolt and a squeal of tires, Castiel wonders what he would have offered had he only booked a single—the floor? the backseat of the Impala? In the privacy of his own mind, he pretends Dean would have been willing to share his bed; he imagines him stripping down to jeans and T-shirt, slipping beneath the covers, lifting them up for Castiel to join him. 

Castiel turns to scowl out the window, humiliated by his own fantasies. Neither of them speaks on the drive.

***

The motel room looks like a thousand others; all Castiel sees is the two queen beds, one pristine, one rumpled. Dean must've slept on top of it instead of getting underneath the paisley-printed polyester bedspread, and Castiel's daydream shifts: in his head, Dean sprawls naked across the mattress, smirks and reaches out for him. He shakes his head to clear his thoughts and sits on the unused bed.

Dean doesn't seem to know what to do with himself; he turns the TV on, flips through channels too fast to really register. "You hungry?" he says abruptly.

Castiel hasn't eaten since six a.m., when he downed a chalky protein bar in four bites before his shift started, but he shrugs. "I guess."

"Okay, well, I'm starving," says Dean. He points the remote at the center of the screen like he's brandishing a pistol and clicks the off button; Castiel watches the light fade until it's gone, replaced by Dean's reflection. His face is blank, in the way Castiel knows means he's feeling too many emotions at once and trying to ignore them all. "Pizza okay?"

"Pizza is excellent," says Castiel fervently. Food, when he has it, is one of his favorite things about being human; as an angel he could identify every molecule in a slice of pizza, but now he gets the entire experience, how all the disparate elements fit together. He hasn't liked everything he's tried—coconut has a texture that makes him feel like he's chewing fingernail clippings—but every bite still fills him with wonder. And pizza might be the most wonderful thing he's ever eaten.

"Food of the gods," Dean says with a smile that's almost genuine. He dials, orders; Castiel picks at a loose thread on the bedspread.

"How's your hand?" asks Dean, coming over to stand in front of him. "Lemme see."

"It's fine," Castiel murmurs. The puncture wounds from the rose's thorns have scabbed over; his wrist hurts but he doesn't think it's broken.

"Lemme see," Dean says again. "Lemme make sure, you don't have a lot of experience here."

Reluctantly, Castiel holds out his injured hand; when Dean takes it in both of his own, he has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from sighing as Dean's touch, tentative and gentle, sears through him. Dean slowly rotates Castiel's wrist, bends it this way and that, watching his face intently for signs of pain. Castiel catches his eyes, holds them. Dean stops moving but doesn't drop Castiel's hand.

"This is how it started with April," Castiel thinks—only he doesn't think it. He says it out loud.

"What?" Dean says sharply, pulling his hands away like he's been burned. "What do you mean?"

Castiel didn't mean for Dean to hear, but since he did, he may as well tell the truth. "Our lovemaking," he explains, "it began with her tending to my wounds. I was—reminded."

"Uh," says Dean, "that's not...I'm just helping you out, dude, I'm not hitting on you. Wrist's twisted is all, I think, I don't think it's sprained." Flustered, he flees to his duffle bag, rummages through it. "I got Vicodin in here somewhere, I'll get you some."

"Dean," Castiel says, and Dean whirls to look at him. The look on his face is hard to judge, but Castiel thinks it might be fear. "Dean, come here."

"I'll be there in a sec, just gotta find the Vicodin," says Dean, but he doesn't move.

"It doesn't hurt that much," says Castiel. "Please." He considers patting the bed next to him, decides it's too much. They're on the verge of something, but they've been here before, perched on the edge of the precipice, and always clawed themselves back to solid ground.

But Castiel has already fallen; he's got nothing to lose anymore, no grace, no home. There's nothing to stop him from doing what he wants—and if Dean rejects him, will he really be any worse off? 

Dean's frozen where he stands, gazing at Castiel with his mouth half open, like he's about to speak but has forgotten how. So Castiel goes to him instead, up into his “personal space,” close enough to feel how Dean gasps in a breath, holds it. He's got that fingertip-sized wrinkle between his eyebrows again, and this time Castiel strokes his thumb over it, smoothing it away. Dean watches his hand with slightly crossed eyes as he goes on to trace his cheekbone, the slope of his nose, the angle of his jaw.

“Breathe,” Castiel tells him, and Dean lets out a sigh. His eyes flutter closed, and Castiel leans in and kisses him.

For a moment, Dean doesn't respond at all, and then he whimpers in the back of his throat and touches the tip of his tongue to Castiel's bottom lip. Their mouths open against each other, and Castiel feels more than hears Dean murmuring his name. He grabs at Dean's waist as Dean's hands come up to cradle his face; Castiel's movement sends a jab of pain through his injured wrist, but he still holds on as tight as he can.

Kissing Dean is the closest Castiel's come to flying since Metatron bled him graceless. He takes a stumbling step closer, and Dean melts into him, pressing their bodies together with a groan; Castiel's fingers creep to Dean's hips, slide slowly around to palm his ass. Dean pushes at his shoulders, and Castiel thinks for a terrified second he's being pushed away, that Dean is rejecting him after all—but Dean is pushing him down onto the unmade bed, half-straddling him, kissing him harder.

Castiel opens his mouth to the press of Dean's tongue; his skin prickles as Dean's hands stroke up his arms, brush over his exposed throat. Dean starts to unbutton his shirt, pausing after each button to kiss Castiel's revealed flesh. It's overwhelming: Castiel writhes under Dean's attentions, arching up to feel Dean's erection jutting into his hip, so close to his own. "Dean," he gasps. "Oh, Dean."

When he comes to the last button, Dean swirls his tongue around Castiel's navel, one shaky hand moving to his fly. "Can I," he starts, gruffly, and clears his throat. "Can I suck your dick," he mutters, picking at Castiel's waistband and not meeting his eyes.

"Yes," Castiel says, and Dean moans like he's been granted a favor. He yanks Castiel's pants open, shoves them out of the way, and licks the head of his penis—his dick, Castiel corrects himself. Dean licks him, puts his mouth over Castiel's dick and hums in satisfaction, and it makes the cascade of sensation even more all-consuming. He hardly remembers his name. He feels no pain.

Dean's clearly done this before, he thinks idly, thrusting up a little into his mouth. Dean shakes his head and pins his hips to the bed. He bobs faster, reaches between Castiel's legs to caress his testicles, and Castiel comes: comes in Dean Winchester's mouth, comes with his whole being. It's almost like dying.

Dean sits up, wiping his mouth, and Castiel sees that Dean's own jeans are open, that he's been touching himself while he sucks Castiel. He's still fully clothed—hasn't even taken off his boots—but the look on his face is naked, pure want. "Let me do that," Castiel pants, and takes his dick out of his boxers, closes his mouth around it.

He hasn't done this before, and while it's not difficult, it's more uncomfortable than he imagined; he tries to go down too far and chokes a little, wraps his hand around him instead. Dean pushes him away before he comes, and Castiel watches his hand moving fast and sure over his dick, unable to resist leaning forward to taste again. Dean makes a strangled noise and comes over his own fingers and Castiel's chin.

"I've wanted to do that for so long," Castiel says, and grins. "I'll get a washcloth."

When he comes back, Dean is lying down, staring at the ceiling with his hand over his mouth. "Dean?" 

"Cas," Dean says. "Cas, I can't—we can't talk about this, okay?"

Objectively, Castiel knows his heart can't jump into his throat, that the sudden lump lodged there is an illusory product of emotion, but it doesn't help. "You're still leaving," he says.

Dean swallows, closes his eyes. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I have to, Cas."

"You can't leave Sam," Cas says flatly.

"No."

Castiel barely restrains the urge to throw the washcloth at Dean; he holds it out instead, and Dean just looks at it. There's a knock at the door.

"Shit," Dean says, "pizza." He hurriedly cleans himself off, tucks his dick back into his jeans and zips up. "Get dressed, dude, or go in the bathroom while the pizza guy's here."

Because Dean wants to hide this. He doesn't want even a stranger to know they had sex. Castiel feels like he's been stabbed.

He goes in the bathroom, refastens his clothes, splashes cold water on his face. Kissing Dean was foolish, he sees now: it changes nothing, no matter how momentous it felt. This is a night outside of their usual lives, a glimpse into a world where they can be together. But that's not this world, where Dean's first thought will always be to protect Sam.

Castiel turns away from his face in the mirror.

Dean's leaning against the dresser eating a slice of pizza when Castiel comes back out; he gives him a tight-lipped smile and gestures to the box beside him.

"Can I sleep in your bed?" Castiel says before he can stop himself.

Dean nods, guilt written all over his face. "Yeah," he says. "We got tonight, okay? Tonight we're...we got tonight."

It will have to be enough.

**Author's Note:**

> I rewatched the episode to write this and...even the cinematography screams romance. We're not making this up.


End file.
